


if hell is found inside of me

by sadbutchhours



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: F/F, Queerplatonic Relationships, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts, rooftop talks at 1 am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:26:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29270961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadbutchhours/pseuds/sadbutchhours
Summary: bro they are just sthey are just sitting here
Relationships: Debbie Ocean/Tammy, Lou Miller/Debbie Ocean, but like... it's complicated
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	if hell is found inside of me

**Author's Note:**

> in which sadbutchhours cries on the roof and misses their homoerotic best friend very much

_Where are you?  
_ _Constance brought some dirty card game_

_Roof_

_WTF? Come back?_

_I’ll be back soon_

_I’m coming_

When Debbie clambers out the window of her bedroom onto the roof, Tammy's holding a cigarette. She hasn’t smoked in years, never really liked it all that much anyway, and Debbie’s not sure she’s ever bought a cigarette in her life. But she has one, now, and she’s just kind of -- holding it. Awkwardly, in fact, pinched between her thumb and middle finger like she’s afraid of it.

Tammy hears the window open -- she must, it makes this horrible loud noise and she’s been on Lou’s ass about it for _weeks_ \-- but she doesn’t turn around, just keeps looking out at the skyline. Debbie sits down next to her. Looks at her, looks away. She’s been crying.

“It’s pretty out here,” says Debbie.

“Isn’t it?”

There’s not a lot most people can glean from two words as short as that, but this is Debbie fucking Ocean, and immediately she can tell Tammy’s tired. Hurting. But she doesn’t want to talk about it yet and she seems glad to have company and a distraction, so Debbie goes for a laugh.

“Prettiest jewels I've ever seen. And I've seen a lot.” 

It succeeds. Debbie’s always loved Tammy’s laugh, high and melodious. It’s like she’s a child again.

“Whatcha doing out here, Tam?” she asks, trying to make her voice sound teasing and caring all at the same time. “Just enjoying the view?”

“Something like that,” she says. 

“You weren’t gonna…”

Tammy laughs again, this one bitter, sharp. “If there were ever a night to jump off the roof, Deb, this would be it.”

Debbie takes that, and sits with it. It’s a heavy thing to hold.

“You don’t want to know why?”

She’s angry. Tammy’s always had so much anger in her. It weeps out of her like a broken blister if she’s not careful, and God, she’s been so careful for so long. So they’re just here, now, within this cloud of pain and hurt and cigarette smoke. 

“I do want to know why,” Debbie murmurs, “but only if you want to tell me.”

“I’m just so fucking _empty_ now!” Tammy’s response is immediate, and furious, and Debbie’s not sure she even heard the end of her statement. She puts the barely-smoked cigarette out on the toe of her _very_ expensive fashion boot. The black leather melts and curls out into an “o.” 

Tammy once did that to her bare foot. Debbie’s not sure when -- she’s had the scar as long as they’ve known each other.

“I thought this was going to fix things,” she sobs. “I have forty million _fucking_ dollars, for God’s sake, and it -- I -- that’s like half a _billion,_ Deb, what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

Debbie rubs a hand over her spine. “It’s definitely not half a billion, baby.”

“It’s over,” she whispers. “Back to real life.” The lights reflect in her dark eyes when she looks up at the horizon. “I was trying not to think about it, the whole time. I wanted to just enjoy it.”

“Is it your husband?”

“It’s a lot of things.”

Debbie nods. She met the guy once or twice while they were dating, but she didn’t come to the wedding. She wonders if Tammy’s still angry about that. 

(In her defense, she made more money that night than the damn wedding probably cost.)

“Is he good to you?”

“He’s nice to me. But he’s not this.” She waves the stub of the cigarette in a wide, sweeping arc: the side of the house, the city sprawled out in front of them, and finally Debbie herself. “He’s not you.”

“Why don’t you stay?” asks Debbie. 

“I have kids, Debbie. I can’t just run away from my problems like you can.” The use of her full name (well, not her _full-_ full name, but still) stings more than the insult.

And yeah, that’s fair enough. That Tammy’s a mother is a fact Debbie continues to forget, over and over. She was in prison longer than those kids have been alive.

“And… I don’t know. I wouldn’t feel comfortable here.” She’s crumbling the cigarette into ashes, picking at the paper and unrolling it at the seam. 

“With me?” 

“With all of you. You’re all friends. Or something like it.”

What’s left of the nicotine falls out onto Tammy’s jeans.

“Please. I’ve known you longer than any of those pieces of shit.”

Laughter erupts from inside, bubbling up like champagne and floating out through the window. And yeah, Debbie loves them, but she loves Tammy more. How could she not?

Tammy’s whole face seems to tighten at the sound. “I’m not like them, though.” Lines appear between her eyebrows, under her eyes, on either side of her mouth and nose. 

“What do you mean?”

“They’re just…” Tammy’s hands are shaking. “They’re all so _cool,_ and they’re cool criminals, and they’re, just, they’re fun and they’re sexy and I have to go home tomorrow and make a fucking casserole!”

Debbie lets her cry, lets all the anger that’s been building for months (years, decades, centuries) spill out of her and dissipate into the air. Tammy screams, howling like she’s been shot. The sound is swallowed up by the city.

“No way,” Debbie says when she’s done, flopped over and heaving shaky breaths in and out. “I always thought you were sexy.”

“You are the fucking worst,” Tammy scoffs, and she’s joking but she’s not. She won’t hate Debbie anymore in the morning.

“Stay here,” Debbie asks, somewhere between a plea and a suggestion. She can’t stand to see Tammy like this any more than she can stand the idea of the house being empty again but for her and Lou. “I know you have your family. But -- you know. If you ever wanted to work something out. You’ll always be welcome here.”

It sounds incredibly forced coming from Debbie, out in the open like that, because of fucking _course_ Tammy’s welcome here. She’s welcome wherever Debbie is.

Tammy is an inevitability. Debbie had figured that into her calculations long ago.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Sure.” Of course she can. What kind of fucking question is that?

Waving a finger between Debbie and the open window, she starts, “You and Lou -- are you…”

“We’re like me and you,” says Debbie. “It’s one of those things.”

Tammy ducks her head to examine the deconstructed cigarette. The paper’s been peeled back into a flat sheet but it curls up anyway. She rolls it into a tight spiral and pockets it.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she mumbles.

Tammy’s said those words before to Debbie, in all kinds of contexts, but they’ve never sounded more beautiful than right now.

“I love you,” she reminds Tammy.

A gust of wind rushes at them, sending nicotine and ash swirling into the air. Debbie breathes it in. It's disgusting, and familiar, and fantastic.

“I know,” Tammy replies.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> say hello on twitter @sadbutchhours
> 
> pangaea's Songs for this fic are "alexander all alone" and "to you," both by andy shauf off his absolutely gorgeous album "the party."


End file.
